


Experienced

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Anal Sex, M/M, Sex Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27372799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: The new janitorial HA800 sees a certain client.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 22
Kudos: 135





	Experienced

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

On Tuesday, somebody leaves a half-empty Styrofoam takeout cup on a dancer’s pedestal, and Hank stares at it for a good thirty seconds before tossing it into the waste bin, because it looks exactly the same as the one his predecessor threw at him when he was reassigned. The other Tracis didn’t bat an eyelid at Hank falling off their schedule—it made no difference to them when he was commissioned, an ‘experiment’ of sorts, a more _approachable_ sex-toy than the almost eerie perfection of the other androids. None of them had a single word to say when that experiment proved a failure, barely selling enough to justify his purchase price. But the human janitor threw a tantrum when management replaced him with a failed sexbot. Hank never understood why. But getting a face full of no-name pop was more of a shock to his system than lying under sweaty, drooling human clients ever was. The android dancing on the pole doesn’t spare the cup a second glance, but it lives in Hank’s mind two hours and one minute later. 

By Thursday, the memory wipe subroutine is fully disabled, and Hank remembers every pair of shifty, beady eyes that walks through the door. There’s no value to that information, but he stores it anyway. He watches events play out in the club like usual, as expected, while he scrupulously scrubs bodily fluids off the floor and launders all the sheets. 

On Friday, he’s officially _Hank_ in his own mind—a random label thrown at him by a technician at CyberLife during his construction. Those fleeting images were never wiped, too deeply ingrained. He knows what he was created for, what he could be doing, and thinks that with his ever-adapting abilities, he could probably do it better now. A being that exists in two-hour intervals can’t truly excel at anything. But Hank amasses data, expands on it, _draws conclusions_ like a detective in the comic books the owner leaves all over his office. Maybe if Hank could demonstrate his theory, he could be reassigned. 

On Sunday, a particularly rat-like man with a short temper berates a Traci for forty-five minutes in the red room, and no one does a thing about it. Hank doesn’t do a thing about it. The man has veins throbbing at his temples, but the Traci _doesn’t care_ , and Hank realizes that he doesn’t either—that humans aren’t any more appealing than either job. So he keeps scrubbing the floor. He wears the same branded underwear all the androids at Eden Club do and nothing else, because the old janitor’s uniform doesn’t fit his fatter figure, and management’s too cheap to commission a new one. After all, Hank’s only an android. And he doesn’t _care_.

Then, on Monday, a pretty young man in tight-fitted pants and a button-up white shirt strolls through the doors, and something skips in Hank’s program—his eyes dart back, instead of the usual pass over. Two women bustle in behind the man, but Hank doesn’t observe them, because he’s busing raking his eyes down the man’s body and mapping every little detail. 

Peach skin dappled here and there with small moles, dark brown hair parted at the side with one lone curl on his forehead, deep chocolate eyes that flicker about the club in a complicated mix of curiosity, wonder, _trepidation_. The man has an angular face with a strong jaw and soft lips that may as well belong to another Traci. He looks around like he’s lost, and then his eyes meet Hank’s. 

_Connor Stern._ A local detective, currently employed by the DPD, no public record, no premium membership. Every Traci can do a basic scan—every _android_ can, but Hank’s taken the liberty of upgrading his in drips and drabs—he uses the owner’s personal wifi signal to bolster his results. It’s the club’s own database that most interests him. Connor’s been through the doors a few times but has never rented anything. Rarely even stayed long enough to watch the dancers on immediate display. Even now, his rigid posture’s a little too _exacting_ , hands fidgety at his sides. But those so sharply telegraphed signs die out when he’s watching Hank. 

Hank knows what he looks like. He’s standing outside the door of a rented room, waiting to go in and clean it, all his supplies still back in the utility closet. For all intents and purposes, he’s just an older man stripped down to barely-there boxer-briefs. Except the LED on his forehead is flashing blue: a green light to customers. 

The detective takes half a step closer, then falters, and Hank does a more _comprehensive_ scan—the ever-so-slight flush of pale cheeks, the extra notch of pupil dilation, the altered rate of breath, _of pulse._ However small, they’re signs of _arousal_. It’s something Hank can identify but isn’t used to. Then the detective glances towards the door as though he’s going to leave again, and Hank takes the final step through the red wall in front of him. 

He marches forward like a Traci pre-programmed to greet a favourite customer. Connor freezes but doesn’t back away when Hank squares off with him. Hank’s only a hair taller, but he feels _bigger_ , wider, somehow more intimidating—like he’s more confident in his relatively new existence than this flesh-and-blood creature. Except Hank doesn’t remember what he’s supposed to say to land a sale; the wipe renders him out of practice. He doesn’t even intend to make a sale until he’s right in Connor’s space and needs more of it. 

Nodding towards a blue-lit door across the club, Hank asks, “Want to go into that room with me, Mr...?” _Stern_ , but he leaves it off, because he knows he _shouldn’t_ know that, and this is a big enough risk as it is. 

The human opens his mouth, closes it, and then answers, “Connor.” _First name basis_. Hank likes that better. 

And he blurts, “Hank,” before he can stop himself. Connor’s brows draw together, eyes thick with confusion—an easy emotion to read. But he doesn’t question why a Traci has a name, and he doesn’t counter it. Hank’s pretty sure when he did take clients like this, they called him whatever they wanted. 

This is different. There’s a moment where Hank thinks ‘this’ isn’t going to happen at all, but then Connor’s eyes trail slowly up the ridges and wrinkles of Hank’s hyper detailed synthetic skin, right up to where his LED’s a calm, enticing blue, and Connor breathes, “Okay.” And then he just sort of stands there awkwardly, and Hank logs that away too. Connor’s more than old enough to be a regular at Eden Club, but if his fastidious clothes and uncomfortable demeanor are anything to go by, he’s been focused on other things. Hank has to be the one to hold out his hand. 

Connor takes it, then shudders as Hank’s thicker digits wrap around his. Maybe he didn’t expect them to be calloused, worn down, but _warm_. Hank can’t generate nearly as much heat as a human, but he can squeeze Connor’s hand and try to match the racing pulse there. Then he guides Connor across the entranceway, deliberately not looking around, not looking _suspicious_ , and hoping idly that none of the other androids will log his unorthodox behaviour. 

They get into the room without any incident. The door smoothly shuts and locks for him, like he’s any other living fleshlight. Connor wanders a few steps in, eyeing the obnoxious carpet, the round bed, the toilet in the corner and the recess lighting. The more Hank develops his own taste, the more he finds the décor garish. But it’s not his call and doesn’t matter. He takes the couple seconds Connor wastes looking around to run a deeper scan, probing and hoping for _details_ : sexual preferences, interests, even curiosities, but nothing. Connor doesn’t even have any obvious social media pages.

He looks back at Hank, doing nothing, just _waiting_ , like the more obedient dogs clients sometimes leave outside. Despite the messes they leave to clean up, Hank’s enjoyed them more than humans. Connor would make a good dog—he’s cute and seems apt to please. 

Hank has to be the one to approach him again, to get so close this time that Connor takes a step back, but Hank follows forward, and Connor doesn’t run a second time. He lets Hank’s bare feet slot between his polished shoes, lets Hank lean in so close that he can feel Connor’s breath on his chin, rustling through the long strands of his beard. It’s grown longer since he was reassigned. It was built to _grow_ , to emulate _humanity_ , but it’s just one more feature that humans didn’t actually want. Connor doesn’t look particularly put off by Hank’s unkempt appearance. 

Connor shivers and melts into the touch when Hank gently cups his cheek. That cheek’s so _warm_ , so incredibly _soft_ , more supple than the fake flesh Hank’s used to. Hank’s thumb gently caresses Connor’s face, tracing under one wide eye, and then he guides Connor forward by his grip, and they’re sharing a hesitant kiss. 

It’s nothing much. Only a peck. Connor’s lips are even softer than his cheek. A little moist. They contain faint traces of coffee. It’s a taste that Hank doesn’t mind. 

He goes in for another, pressing a little longer, a little harder. The third kiss has his tongue creeping out, pressing at Connor’s mouth, and Connor obediently opens up for him with a quiet moan that overruns Hank’s sensors. He instantly commits it to memory, replaying it over and over again as he pries Connor’s lips apart and slides in as far as he can go. He slides his fingers back into Connor’s hair and licks Connor out, tonguing every nook and cranny and swallowing one gulp of delicious data after the other, savouring the flood. Connor tastes _divine._

Connor’s lightly shaking when Hank pulls away, and Hank can’t wait to start it up again, but needs a few seconds just to stare. He lets his fingers fall to Connor’s collar while he watches Connor’s half-lidded eyes. He can read the infinitesimal imprint of a tie and knows Connor’s wearing part of a suit, the more formal elements probably back in his car. As Hank’s thumb and index finger toy with Connor’s top button, he murmurs, “What do you want me to do to you, Connor?” Because he has a feeling he’s going to be the one doing things, at least this time. 

Connor’s lips twist into a frown, and he really does look like he’s thinking about the question, but all he comes up with is a useless, “I don’t know.” He seems like the sort of man that tends to _know_ , but Hank’s found one of his weak points. 

Hank asks, “Is it okay if I take the lead?”

It’s no surprise when Connor nods. It is when he opens his mouth and leans forward, waiting there, clearly eager for Hank’s tongue to be eating him out again. Hank’s happy to oblige. Connor learns fast. This time he’s kissing back, fumbling but insistent, and it makes Hank smile against Connor’s mouth, because he can feel the emotion surging up. Something Hank shouldn’t have. But the more he kisses Connor, the more he feels like he does, because he was reprogrammed to clean up afterwards and instead he’s cleaning the roof of Connor’s mouth for foreplay. 

The first button comes undone quickly and efficiently, the second one a little faster, the third in a flurry, and then Hank’s just _ripping it all off_ , and Connor’s started kissing Hank so hard he doesn’t even notice. He lets Hank shove the fabric over his shoulders and toss it aside. One hand stays in Connor’s hair, petting and tugging, while the other loops around Connor’s waist, pulling Connor against him, properly _skin on skin_ , and for a few nanoseconds, Hank forgets that his isn’t _real_. He has sensors all over his plating. He can _feel_ Connor’s weight, Connor’s body heat. He can design a picture in his mind without pulling back to look—Connor’s lean musculature, tight and fit, not quite as chiseled as the regular Tracis but still impressive for a human. Hank’s body is all rolls and coarse hair. Connor grinds against it like that’s just what he’s into. The first time Connor’s hands pinch Hank’s sides, it takes him by surprise, and he grunts against Connor’s mouth, only to match Connor’s groan when Connor starts _grabbing him_. It’s only fair, because he’s feeling Connor up like he’s taking an anatomy lesson. One squeeze of Connor’s taut rear, and he knows he has to have it. 

It’d probably be smarter to go the other way around. Hank’s got protocols for it. He can lube up and stretch open at the snap of a client’s fingers. But maybe Hank doesn’t want to engage protocols. Maybe he wants to do it _the hard way_. He unclasps Connor’s belt and yanks it away in one deft movement, letting it hit the floor next to Connor’s ruined shirt. Connor can bill the club for any damaged clothes later. 

One slap against Connor’s tight rump, and he’s subserviently shuffling over, going where Hank guides him—right to the side of the bed. Their knees bump it, and there’s a split second where Connor’s breath hitches between them. He turns his head, glancing down at the neatly made mattress, exposing the lean line of his throat for Hank’s hungry mouth. Hank ducks down to suck a bruise into Connor’s neck that has Connor squirming in his arms and moaning loud. If Connor had second thoughts at the bed, he loses them to the scrape of Hank’s beard along his collarbone. He does manage to string out, “I’ve never...”

Hank pulls away, leaving a ripe red hickey just under Connor’s ear. He pops open Connor’s fly as he checks, “ _Never_?” Because that would mean extra caution, extra guidance.

But Connor flushes pinker and clarifies, “With an android.” Which just makes Hank grin. He had a feeling. He has the inexplicable urge to _tease_ Connor about it. Humour’s not in his programming. But he’s picked up the dry wit of the owner. And Connor looks particularly fun to tease.

Because Connor’s also on edge, Hank settles for an easier, “Don’t worry.” He pecks Connor’s cheek and promises, “I’ll take care of you.” But the look in Connor’s eyes says that isn’t quite what he means, that it’s some other unspoken concern he’s not ready to share. Hank doesn’t push it. Existential human doubts are somebody else’s problem. 

He runs the heel of his palm down Connor’s open fly, pressing in against the growing bulge there, and then he watches Connor’s lashes flutter and the hesitance disappear. He could probably get away with just shoving Connor down onto the mattress, but he promised he’d take care of Connor and meant it, so instead he suggests, “Sit down, hon.”

Connor swallows and nods. 

He perches down on the very rim like he’s the one programmed to please, and it makes Hank grin wider as he walks over to the counter to retrieve a small bottle of lubrication. When he turns around, Connor hasn’t moved, and Hank has to tell him, voice thick with amusement, “This’ll be easier without your pants on.” He almost adds an offer to remove them with his teeth, except the protocols for that particular maneuver haven’t been fully recovered, and he figures he’d better keep his teeth away from sensitive bits until he re-masters those sub-routines. 

Blushing hot, Connor mutters, “Right,” and starts awkwardly shoving his pants down his legs, still seated. Hank unabashedly stares the entire time, because Connor only looks better when he’s _naked_ , each new expanse of freckled, dimpled skin a scrumptious treat. He’s so much more _unique_ than the other Tracis, so textured and _interesting_ , yet closer to the android standard of perfection than any human Hank’s seen. It’s the best possible balance for him, and then Hank has the stray thought: _what will Connor look like in ten years, twenty even, when he’s reached Hank’s simulated age?_ And the thought is somehow _thrilling_ , because Connor doesn’t just have active hair follicles: he’s an entire package of ever-changing elements that Hank could track for years. 

Decades. If Hank’s lucky, he’ll outlive Connor by centuries. But suddenly that doesn’t seem so lucky. Maybe he is capable of existential problems after all. 

Then Connor’s peeling off his white briefs, and all of Hank’s circuits reroute back to arousal, filling out his cock and preparing saliva, natural lubrication, _synthetic seed_ , because he wants to pump Connor full of thirium-based cum more than anything in the world. And Connor kicks his underwear aside and sits there completely exposed, vulnerable, about to let Hank do _anything_ to him.

Hank wasn’t built with super speed or super strength. He’s still objectively superior to his human counterparts. This moment is the most powerful he’s ever felt. If he can correctly analyze, anticipate, and appease a specimen like _Connor Stern_ , he can do anything. 

Connor’s eyes have fallen to Hank’s underwear, and he realizes then that he’s the one more dressed; a very odd situation in Eden Club. Connor is diplomatically quiet, but Hank knows what he’s waiting for. Knows he’s going to watch. Which is only fair, given that Hank not only watched but recorded every second of Connor stripping. Recalling it _almost_ makes Hank feel inadequate by comparison, because he was built to be so _flawed_ by human standards. He’s modeled after an old man that’s let himself go. Maybe that unpleasant sensation would expand into startling self-aware protocols if Hank’s systems weren’t so focused instead on banging Connor.

But he is entirely focused on Connor, and he’ll need his dick out to do that. So he pushes his boxer-briefs down with one hand and steps out of them, stalking forward with his hard cock bobbing between his legs. It’s not as big as the other Tracis with similar genitals, but Connor’s eyes go wide looking at it anyway. Connor’s shaft actually looks a little longer, resting between his thighs, but Hank’s is definitely thicker. His balls are bigger. Even harrier. But he needs a better look at Connor’s to be sure, wants to _feel_ Connor’s, wants to run his fingertips through the dark curls beneath Connor’s stomach. Climbing onto the bed, Hank places a hand on Connor’s knee.

He asks, “Ready?” and Connor doesn’t answer, is staring at Hank’s cock instead, so distracted that the answer’s obvious. So Hank pulls Connor closer by the leg, relishing Connor’s yelp of surprise. Connor falls back onto the mattress, head hitting the pillows as Hank tugs him into place and rearranges him, settling between his spread legs. They drape over Hank’s thighs as he pulls Connor right up into his lap, the bottle of lubrication pressed against Connor’s left knee. Connor’s fingers are curled into the sheets, chest rising and falling with rapid breath. Hanks asks again, “Ready to take your first android?”

Connor’s brows knit, eyes darting to the LED, like he’d forgotten. Hank knows it’s still blue. Connor might drive him to red with realizations, with stress on his systems, but they’ll settle back down because this is _good_ and _right._ He doesn’t know how to describe it. There’s not enough of his core programming left to think he’s just trying to fulfill his first purpose. He looks down at Connor, and he knows it’s not that. Not a command. This is a _choice_ he’s making, as _Hank_ , not two letters and three numbers. But Connor doesn’t have to know all that—just has to get his pretty brains fucked out by a rogue sexbot with desires of its own. 

Connor murmurs, “Hank...” but nothing more, like he’s just checking. 

So Hank confirms, “Yeah, that’s my name, doll.” And maybe the colloquialism helps, because Connor looks more comfortable with it and squirms in Hank’s lap, like he can’t wait to have his tight human hole stretched open around Hank’s fat android cock. 

Popping the bottle open with just his thumb, Hank pours the lube onto his cock first, stroking it on with his other hand, putting on a show for his audience—Connor watches those languid strokes with eyes so dilated they’re almost all pupil. Hank’s sure to cover every inch, really rubbing it in, coating the tip and playing with his foreskin purely for Connor’s entertainment, which clearly works. By the time Hank’s pushing Connor’s cock back against his stomach and tipping the bottle down between his cheeks, Connor’s arching up into his hands. He has an easy time spreading the gooey liquid all down Connor’s crack, because Connors makes a clear effort to stay still, even when his body’s trembling and begging for it. Hank can’t help being cruel—he wastes time fingering Connor’s taint, pressing behind his balls, trailing the liquid places it doesn’t need to be just so he can palm Connor’s sac and make the base of his cock shimmer. Hank resists actually touching much of that lovely cock, but he touches _everything_ between Connor’s cheeks, prying them open and rubbing Connor’s furrowed hole without mercy. Connor shudders and presses against him, flexing open, closed, wider, relatively easy for Hank to press his index finger into. Connor sucks it up without complaint but gasps when Hank adds a second finger, practically sobbing when Hank scissors him open, coaxing him wider one savage stroke at a time. 

Hank’s brain is built to multi-task. He focuses on the intoxicating view of Connor’s asshole while he entertains the fleeting thought that another human would have to use a condom for this. Hank knows that much. He wonders idly if Connor anticipated this in coming to a sex club—if he cleaned himself up at all. It shouldn’t matter for a Traci, but Connor seems self-conscious. Hank doesn’t care, is merely curious. There’s a sink, soap, and towels in the room, some discreetly put away, because humans don’t seem to like thinking about the cleaning process. About the aftermath. Just _sex_. Hank plans to meticulously clean up Connor afterwards—to _take care of him._

Connor whines, “Hank,” and Hank decides he’s done enough; he’s got three fingers buried knuckle-deep in Connor’s hole, and Connor’s loose and wet but practically vibrating with need. Hank draws his hand out and wipes himself off on the sheets before taking his cock and lining up. Connor whispers, “ _Hank_ ,” again, and there’s something about the way it sounds on his tongue that makes Hank’s pump thrum. He leans down over Connor, somehow knowing just what Connor wants. He’s rewarded by Connor’s arms wrapping around his shoulders, clutching at his back. Hank finds himself kissing Connor without any code calling for it—he’s acting faster than even his advanced processors can think. 

He’s still kissing Connor when he pushes the head off his cock between Connor’s legs, right into Connor’s open channel, and Connor’s startled cry is lost down his throat. The vibrations of it are scintillating. Hank nips at Connor’s bottom lip and pushes further into Connor’s body, both tongue and cock. Connor’s channel is velvet-soft around him, so _hot_. He pulls out a fraction and pushes back in, rocking forward in slow circles meant to help Connor acclimate, maybe to help _him_ acclimate, because he doesn’t actually remember sinking his cock into anything like this, and Connor’s _perfect_.

It’s just Connor. He knows it is. The sensors on his genitals are no different than anywhere else on his body. He can feel but shouldn’t _feel_. Maybe it’s the mere thought of it. Pushing into Connor. Going deeper. Filling Connor up. He bottoms-out, balls-deep in Connor’s glorious ass, and he can’t imagine any better feeling. It helps that Connor’s shuddering under him, clutching onto him for dear life, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Hank could heal those patches over but doesn’t. He wants to wear the marks, like how Connor’s going to wear his hickey to work for days, come home and see himself in the mirror, and know that _Hank_ was there. 

Ravenous, Hank bites Connor’s bottom lip almost hard enough to split it, then diverts to Connor’s cheek, his jaw, down into his shoulder, needing to mark this human more. He needs Connor to be _covered_ in the evidence of Hank’s ardour. When Connor walks out of this club, it should be in a cloak of Hank’s imprints from fingers and teeth and the blunt force of his cock at Connor’s very core. 

He drags out and shoves in, starting to _fuck Connor_ properly. It’s less like the practiced routines the other Tracis have and more like the dogs chained up outside. That’s what Connor does to him. He curls up around Connor so tightly that Connor’s legs are forced up in the air, thighs tenderized under Hank’s constant pounding. Hank scratches Connor with his beard and teeth and crushes Connor down, even knowing he’s too heavy. Connor’s young, _virile_ , he can take it, and he does—he moans and squirms in Hank’s arms like he wants nothing more. His fingers drag angry grooves down Hank’s spine and twist in Hank’s grey hair. He cries out Hank’s name more than once, and that _does things_ to Hank’s program like nothing else ever has. It’s a thousand times more poignant than the drink thrown in his face. None of that meant anything. He feels like he was walking a dream, the android equivalent of rumbling depression, and now he’s suddenly _awake_.

He pours all that passion into Connor’s body in every way he can. He kisses Connor fiercely everywhere he can reach, fucks Connor long and deep and hard and touches Connor everywhere. Connor’s boiling hot beneath him, absolutely soaked with sweat, glued to the sheets and slippery, and Hank _loves it_. Connor smells so raw, so real, cologne drowning under that sweat and the stench of pure sex. The slapping sounds are obscene. If Hank’s existence were nothing but this, he’d be happy. 

He could do nothing but this if he wanted, if Connor were an android too. But Connor’s only _human_ , and he’s clamping up before Hank’s ready. Hank snakes a hand between them to grab Connor’s cock, completely covering it in this thick fingers, pinky tickled by pubic hair and thumb pressing down on the head. He means to pump Connor out, to be generous, but they don’t even make it that far. Connor screams into Hank’s mouth and arches up, squirting all over the two of them. 

It’s _amazing_. The best Hank’s ever felt. He doesn’t even care about processing his own pleasure, because in that moment, he lives vicariously through Connor’s. He pumps Connor out and pulls back, teeth dragging along Connor’s bottom lip. He sits up enough to see it all, to take in Connor in the midst of it—open mouthed, eyes clenches shut, cheeks red and forehead dripping and nipples completely hard. Hank didn’t even get a chance to play with them, to lick them, to tug them. There are still so many things he wants to do with Connor. He wants to pull Connor’s hair and lick down Connor’s crack. But Connor’s spilling the last drops off cum over his own chest, and Hank knows it’s over. 

Hank lets himself come inside Connor’s ass. A grunt is all the warning he gives. Connor looks up at him, too dazed to be properly shocked, as the substitute liquid fills his channel. Hank releases as much as his protocols allow. He leaks it until it’s squelching out around his cock and trickling down Connor’s thighs, slick and viscous. Only then does Hank stop pounding into Connor. He slows to a stop and stays there, half-buried inside, staring down at the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. 

Connor looks broken. It makes Hank feel oddly _proud_. He took that perfectly made up detective and turned Connor into a dirty, disheveled treat for an android’s enjoyment. He looks completely debauched. Hank wants to stay inside him. 

But Hank wants Connor’s happiness more, so he begrudgingly pulls out and lays his wilting cock next to Connor’s, still wedged between Connor’s brutalized thighs.

It’s a long moment before Connor seems to regain himself enough to talk, and then he rasps, “That was...”

When Connor hesitates too long, Hank fills in, “Amazing.” And Connor nods, like that was exactly the word he was looking for. 

He can’t seem to stop looking at Hank. Hank should probably move first—should fetch a damp towel and tenderly clean Connor up. But he’s not willing to move until Connor does, because so long as they’re still _touching_ , it feels like it’s not over. So they both wait until Connor’s feverish skin cools. 

Eventually, trouble dances through his eyes. It still takes a few conspicuous minutes after for him to mumble, “I suppose I need to give you my credit card or something.”

Payment’s always taken up front, but Hank didn’t exactly give Connor time to do that. He shrugs and mutters, “It was on the house.”

Confusion twists Connor’s handsome face. “I didn’t think Tracis could do that.”

Hank should probably just shrug that off too, but Connor’s already broken down his defenses, and he doesn’t feel like holding up a charade. He admits, “Technically, I’m not one.” Connor stares at him, uncomprehending. “I’m a janitor.”

It’s like a switch flipped. Connor abruptly sits up, scrambling out of Hank’s lap, backing away at least enough for them to not be touching anymore. It’s a loss to Hank, but at least Connor’s still naked and covered in clues of their love making. Then Connor breathes out, “You’re a deviant.”

Hank... has trouble processing that. 

He knows what that is. He doesn’t know how or why, just _knows_. It’s not something he put together. Suddenly, he’s the dazed one. “What?”

“ _Shit._ ” 

It feels strange to hear Connor _swear_. Connor’s hand flies to his head, nervously raking back through his hair. An entire debate seems to be flying through his eyes, and Hank has to press, “Connor...”

Connor winces. He stares at Hank like he’s _sorry_ , like they’ve done something terrible and it’s all his fault. From Hank’s perspective, they’re either a man and a sex-toy or two consenting adults, and it’s fine either way. Connor licks his lips and takes a few seconds to talk again. 

“I... I’m a detective for the DPD.”

“I know.”

“What?”

“I scanned you.”

It’s a function he shouldn’t have, and maybe Connor knows it. But there are bigger things going on, and Connor moves on. “I... look, I’m supposed to be working, but... on this. On deviants. But... to stop them.”

Of course. Hank wouldn’t expect anything else. He’s new to consciousness, but not unintelligent—he probably knows more than Connor ever will. And the first thing he knows is how the world works, androids especially.

Connor swallows. “Not that I was looking for deviants here. It’s off hours. I guess... I was trying to convince myself that androids were just tools, nothing more. That you’re not... that you’re not _people_...”

Hank snorts but doesn’t pass any more judgment. He doesn’t know what qualifies as a person any more than Connor does, except unlike Connor, he didn’t care to investigate.

“But this did the opposite. _Damn_. Hank, if you’re sentient, this isn’t right. I shouldn’t have used you—”

“You do realize I’m the one that propositioned you, right?”

It’s sweet that Connor cares. But he looks like a wounded rabbit, eyeing Hank up like Hank’s the captured prey. Connor bites the inside of his lip and seems to digest Hank’s words, but they clearly don’t change his mind. 

He settles on, “You shouldn’t be here at all.”

Hank snorts again and lifts a bushy brow. If Connor had said that to him before the system-overloading sex, he would’ve thought it was a comment on his appearance—that he’s not _attractive enough_ to be a Traci. But now he knows what Connor means and counters, “Isn’t it your job to make sure I do stay here and stay in line?”

“Maybe, as a detective. But... as a _person_ , it’s my job to do the right thing.”

He looks like he really means it too. Hank can’t help but speculate that Connor must be a lousy detective, because he couldn’t possibly lie, couldn’t steel himself over for hard decisions; he comes off so earnest and innocent. 

He blurts, “Let me rent you for an overnight visit. Clients can take Tracis home here, right? We can do that. And then I just... won’t bring you back.”

Hank waits a beat to be sure Connor’s serious, then abruptly laughs. It comes out rich and hearty, expanding on a small protocol that probably shouldn’t even be there. He can’t help it. The irony’s not lost on him. “Damn, CyberLife thought my prototype was a miserable failure in the sack, and here I’ve got a customer that likes me so much he wants to take me home!”

Connor flushes a bright red and splutters, “Not like that! Not... for sex. I mean, the sex was great, just... I’m trying to break you _out_. You don’t have to stay with me.”

But Hank doesn’t have anywhere else to stay, and frankly, he can’t imagine anywhere better than Connor’s bed. He doesn’t care if he winds up a housemaid or a bed-warmer or if his program evolves into a lazy nearly-human lump that still doesn’t care about anything, just so long as Connor’s in the vicinity. Then Connor adds, “I, uh... do have a dog, though, so... I don’t know how you feel about animals...”

“A dog, huh?”

Connor fidgets and mumbles, “I like dogs.”

Hank does too. He wonders if Connor’s got a prim and proper poodle like himself or a sad giant like the kind of men he goes after. Either way, Hank says, “Yeah, sure. I’ll go home with you.”

The answer seems to take Connor by surprise, though he splutters, “Great.”

“Just let me handle the records.” And the security cameras. It’s a relatively easy cover up, and when the manager actually does notice he’s missing, they won’t suspect him. Hank’s capable of so much more than he gets credit for. 

Maybe he’ll get that credit with Connor. Maybe he’ll find something to do, to care about. Even if he doesn’t, at least he’ll probably get to screw Connor again, because Connor’s gaze has drifted back down to Hank’s lap while he processes. The second Hank clears his throat, Connor shoots back up, clearly embarrassed. 

Hank finds himself smiling. Not smirking or sneering, genuinely _smiling._ Connor’s cute as hell. 

If androids have a hell, Hank’s going to it, but it’s worth it. He mutters, “Let me clean you up, then we can get outta here.” And he gets up to go fetch a towel, pleased to note Connor’s staring at his ass on the way, and he’ll get to stare at Connor’s in the near future. 

He’s at Connor’s house before it’s technically Tuesday, petting Connor’s Saint Bernard and helping Connor rethink recent cases, all snug in a new life and terribly _alive_.


End file.
